CHAPTER XXX FERN IN DIE WELT.
CHAPTER XXXI "BLUE IS THE SWEETEST."
CHAPTER XXXII. THE EXILE'S RETURN.
SONNET by F. A. HILLARD.
NICE by R. DAVEY.
THE RASKOL, AND SECTS IN RUSSIA.
I. ORIGIN OF THE RASKOL.
II. OPPOSITION TO MODERN CIVILIZATION.
III. INTERNAL DIVISIONS.
ELEANOR'S CAREER by ITA ANIOL PROKOP.
AN AMERICAN LADY'S OCCUPATIONS SEVENTY YEARS AGO by
ETHEL C. GALE.
A MARCH VIOLET by EMMA LAZARUS.
WHAT IS A CONCLAVE? by T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE.
MONSOOR PACHA by GEORGE H. BOKER.
HOW HAM WAS CURED by JENNIE WOODVILLE.
ON THE STUDY OF SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS by KATE HILLARD.
OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.
ARTISTS' MODELS IN ROME by T. A. T.
FAUST IN POLAND by E. C. R.
A LETTER FROM HAVANA by F. C. N.
FRENCH SLANG by F. A.
NOTES.
LITERATURE OF THE DAY.
Books Received.
FOOTNOTES.
ILLUSTRATIONS
FOREST OF COCKATOOS.
SYDNEY.
ASTROLABE AND ZÉLÉE ON CORAL REEFS
CANNIBAL FIRES.
MONUMENT TO BURKE AND WILLS.
BAS-RELIEF: RETURN TO COOPER'S CREEK.
BAS-RELIEF: DEATH OF BURKE.
BAS-RELIEF: FINDING OF BURKE.
VALLEY OF LAUNCESTON, VAN DIEMEN'S LAND.
COURSE OF THE TAMAR, VAN DIEMEN'S LAND.
GORGE OF THE TAMAR, VAN DIEMEN'S LAND.
HOBART TOWN.
ON THE WAY TO THE WOOD-DRIFT.
OUR ARRIVAL AT THE DRIFT-KEEPER'S COTTAGE.
INTERIOR OF TOMERL'S COTTAGE.
"FIXING THE BOAT-HOOK INTO AN INDENTATION, I PULLED MYSELF IN."
ENTERING THE EYRIE.
* * * * *
LIPPINCOTT'S MAGAZINE
OF
_POPULAR LITERATURE AND SCIENCE_.
APRIL, 1875.
Vol. XV, No. 88
* * * * *
AUSTRALIAN SCENES AND ADVENTURES.
CONCLUDING PAPER.
[Illustration: FOREST OF COCKATOOS.]
People who go to Australia expecting every other man they meet to be a
convict, and every convict a ruffian in felon's garb, will assuredly
find themselves mistaken. And if contemplating a residence in Sydney or
Melbourne they need not anticipate the necessity of living in a tent or
a shanty, nor yet of accepting the society of convicts or negroes as the
only alternative to a life of solitude. Neither will it be necessary to
go armed with revolvers by day, nor to place plate and jewels under
guard at night. Sydney, the capital of the penal colony, is a quiet,
orderly city, abounding in villas and gardens, churches and schools, and
about its well-lighted streets ride and walk well-dressed and well-bred
people, whose visages betray neither the ruffian nor the cannibal. Some
of them may be convicts or "ticket-of-leave-men," but this a stranger
would need to be told, as they dress like others, their equipages are
quite as stylish, and many of them not only amass more property, but are
really more honest, than some of those never sentenced, because they
know that the continuance of their freedom depends on their reputation.
[Illustration: SYDNEY.]
The city, built on the south side of a beautiful lake, is perfectly
unique in design, being composed of five broad promontories, looking
like the five fingers of a hand slightly expanded. All the important
streets run from east to west, and each terminates in a distinct harbor,
while clearly visible from the upper portion of the street is a grand
moving panorama of vessels of every description, with masts, sails and
colors that seem peering out from every interstice between the houses.
Each day witnesses the arrival and departure of eight or ten steamers,
ferry-boats leave every half hour all the principal landings for the
various sections of the city, and the wharves are lined with the
shipping of every nation, many of the vessels ranging from fifteen
hundred to two thousand tons burden. On a huge rock in Watson's Bay
stands the lighthouse at the entrance of Port Jackson. The sea lashes
the black rock with ceaseless fury, the light from the summit rendering
even the base visible at a great distance. The light is 350 feet above
the level of the sea, yet it was almost under its very rays that the
good ship Dunbar came to grief. Missing the passage, she was engulfed in
the raging sea, and her three hundred and ninety passengers perished in
full view of the homes they were seeking.
Orange and almond trees, with other tropical plants, loaded with
blossoms and fruit, beautify the lowlands, while in more elevated
localities are found the fruits and foliage of the temperate zone, very
many of them exotics brought by the settlers from their English homes.
Down to the very water's edge extends the verdure of tree and shrub,
overshadowing to the right Fort Jackson, and to the left Middle Harbor.
The Government House commands the bay with the imposing mien of a
fortress, and the magnificent reception-rooms are worthy of a
sovereign's court. The garden surrounding it occupies a beautiful
promontory, its borders washed by the sea, the walks shaded by trees
imported from Europe, and the whole parterre redolent with tropical
beauty and fragrance. On the promenades are frequently assembled at
evening two or three hundred ladies and gentlemen in full dress, while
military bands discourse sweet music for the entertainment of the
brilliant throng.
Ballarat may be called the city of gold; Melbourne, of clubs, democracy
and thriving commerce; Hobart Town takes the premium for hospitality and
picturesque beauty; but Sydney bears the impress of genuine English
aristocracy, in combination with a sort of Creole piquancy singularly in
contrast with English exclusiveness, yet giving a wonderful charm to the
society of this city of high life, so full of gayety, brilliancy and
luxury. Who would recognize in the Sydney of to-day, with its four
hundred thousand inhabitants, its churches, theatres and libraries, the
outgrowth of the penal colony of Botany Bay, planted only eighty-seven
years ago on savage shores? It was in May, 1787, that the first colony
left England for Botany Bay, a squadron of eleven vessels, carrying
eleven hundred and eighteen colonists to make a lodgment on an unknown
shore inhabited by savages. Of these eleven hundred and eighteen, there
were six hundred male and two hundred and fifty female convicts, the
remaining portion being composed of officers and soldiers to take charge
of the new penal settlement, under the command of Governor Phillip. From
so unpromising a beginning has grown the present rich and flourishing
settlement, and in lieu of the few temporary shanties erected by the
first colonists there stands a magnificent city of more than ordinarily
fine architecture, with banks and hospitals, schools and churches--among
the latter a superb cathedral--all displaying the proverbial prodigality
of labor and expense for which the English are noted in the erection and
adornment of their public edifices. Among the educational establishments
are the English University, with a public hall like that of Westminster;
St. John's College (Catholic); and national primary and high schools,
where are educated about thirty-four thousand pupils at an annual
expense to the government of more than three hundred thousand dollars.
From the parent colony have sprung others, while the poverty and
corruption that were the distinguishing features of the original element
have been gradually lost in the more recent importations of honest and
respectable citizens.
Apart from the wealth and gayety of Sydney, there is much in its various
grades of society to interest the average tourist. The "ticket-of-leave
men"--that is, convicts who, having served out a portion of their term
and been favorably reported for good conduct, are permitted to go at
large and begin life anew--form a distinct class, and exert a widespread
influence by their wealth, benevolence and commercial enterprise.
[Illustration: ASTROLABE AND ZÉLÉE ON CORAL REEFS.]
Very many of the better class are talented and well educated, with the
manners and appearance of gentlemen; and in some cases there has been
perhaps but the _single_ crime for which they suffered expatriation
and disgrace. Such as these, as a rule, conduct themselves with
propriety from the moment of being sentenced; never murmur at their work
or discipline, be it ever so hard; and probably after a single year of
hardship are favorably reported, and permitted to seek or make homes for
themselves. Many of them own bank shares and real estate, and some
become immensely rich, either by ability or chance good-fortune. The
property is their own, but the owners are always watched by those in
power, and are liable at any moment to be ordered back to their old
positions. These "remanded men" are treated with the greatest severity,
and few have sufficient power of endurance to live out even a short term
with its increase of rigor and hardship. Yet to the energy and
enterprise of the liberated felons is probably due, more than to any
other cause, that increase of prosperity which has long since rendered
these colonies not only self-supporting, but a source of revenue to the
Crown.
[Illustration: CANNIBAL FIRES.]
Another and the most dangerous class of convicts are those known as
"bushrangers." They are desperate fellows, composed of the very lowest
scum of England, have ordinarily been sentenced for life, and, having no
hope of pardon or desire for amendment, they escape as soon as possible,
often by the murder of one or more of their guards, and take refuge in
the wilds of the interior. Some of these bushrangers are associated
together in large hordes, but others roam solitary for months before
they will venture to trust their lives in the hands of other desperadoes
like themselves. There are hundreds of these lawless men prowling like
wild beasts for their prey in the vicinity of every thoroughfare between
the cities and the mines, robbing and murdering defenceless passengers,
plundering the mails, and constantly exacting the best of their flocks
and herds from the stockmen and shepherds, who in their isolated
positions dare not refuse their demands. So desperate is the character
of these outlaws that they are seldom taken, though thousands of pounds
are occasionally offered for the head of some noted ringleader. They may
be killed in skirmishes, but will not suffer themselves to be taken
alive. A man calling himself "Black Darnley" ranged the woods for years,
committing all sorts of crimes, but at length met a violent death at the
hands of another convict, whose daughter he had outraged.
A curious memento of the first theatre opened in Sydney and the first
performance within its walls has come down to us from the year 1796,
about eight years after the establishment of the penal colony. It was
opened by permission of the governor: all the actors were convicts who
won the privilege by good behavior, and the price of admission was one
shilling, payable in silver, flour, meat or wine. The prologue, written
by a _cidevant_ pickpocket of London, illustrates the character of
the times in those early days of the colony:
From distant climes, o'er widespread seas, we come,
Though not with much _éclat_ or beat of drum,
True patriots all; for be it understood,
We left our country for our country's good:
No private views disgraced our generous zeal;
What urged our travels was our country's weal;
And none will doubt but that our emigration
Has proved most useful to the British nation.
But, you inquire, what could our breasts inflame
With this new passion for theatric fame?
What in the practice of our former days
Could shape our talents to exhibit plays?
Your patience, sirs: some observations made,
You'll grant us equal to the scenic trade.
He who to midnight ladders is no stranger
You'll own will make an admirable Ranger,
And sure in Filch I shall be quite at home:
Some true-bred Falstaff we may hope to start.
The scene to vary, we shall try in time
To treat you with a little pantomime.
Here light and easy Columbines are found,
And well-tried Harlequins with us abound.
From durance vile our precious selves to keep,
We often had recourse to the flying leap,
To a black face have sometimes owed escape,
And Hounslow Heath has proved the worth of crape.
But how, you ask, can we e'er hope to soar.
Above these scenes, and rise to tragic lore?
Too oft, alas! we've forced the unwilling tear,
And petrified the heart with real fear.
Macbeth a harvest of applause will reap,
For some of us, I fear, have murdered sleep.
His lady, too, with grace will sleep and talk:
Our females have been used at night to walk.
Grant us your favor, put us to the test:
To gain your smiles we'll do our very best,
And without dread of future Turnkey Lockets,
Thus, in an honest way, still _pick your pockets_!
It was by the coral-bound Straits of Torres, reckoned by navigators the
most difficult in the world, that the English government determined a
few years ago to send an envoy to open communication between the
Australian colony and the Dutch possessions of Java and Sumatra. The
Hero was the vessel selected for this perilous mission--a voyage of
twelve hundred miles through seas studded thickly with reefs and islands
of coral, many of which lay just beneath the surface of the
waves--hidden pitfalls of death whose yawning jaws threatened instant
destruction to the unwary voyager. The splendid steamer Cowarra had been
wrecked on these reefs only a few months before, but a single one of her
two hundred and seventy-five passengers escaping a watery grave. Her
tall masts, still standing bolt upright amid the coral-reefs, presented
a gaunt spectacle, plainly visible from the Hero's decks as she threaded
her way among the shoaly waters, while a similar though less tragical
warning was the disaster that had overtaken two other vessels, the
Astrolabe and the Zélée, which by a sudden ebb of the tide were thrown
high and dry upon the sands, and remained in this frightful condition
for eight days before the returning waters drifted them off. But the
Hero was a staunch craft--an iron blockade-runner, built at Glasgow
during our late war. She was of twelve hundred tons burden, manned by
forty-two men, and had already weathered storms and dangers enough to
earn a right to the name she bore. Right nobly she fulfilled her
dangerous mission, threading her way with difficulty among whole fields
of coral, that sometimes almost enclosed her low hull as between two
walls; again seeming upon the very verge of the breakers or ready to be
engulfed in their whirling eddies, but emerging at last into the open
channel, a monument of the skill and watchfulness of her officers. Many
of these for days together never left the deck, and the lead was cast
three or four times an hour during the whole passage of these dangerous
seas. Such is the history of navigation in coral seas, but if full of
danger, they are equally replete with picturesque beauty. In the coral
isle, with its blue lagoon, its circling reef and smiling vegetation,
there is a wondrous fascination; while in the long reefs, with the ocean
driving furiously upon them, only to be driven pitilessly back, all
wreathed in white foam and diamond spray, there is enough of the sublime
to transfix the most careless observer. The barrier reef that skirts the
north-east coast of the Australian continent is the grandest coral
formation in the world, stretching for a distance of a thousand miles,
with a varying breadth of from two hundred yards to a mile. The maximum
distance from the shore is seventy miles, but it rarely exceeds
twenty-five or thirty. Between this and the mainland lies a sheltered
channel, safe, for the most part, when reached; but there are few open
passages from the ocean, and the shoals of imperfectly-formed coral that
lie concealed just below the surface render the most watchful care
necessary to a safe passage. The fires of the cannibals, visible on
every peak all along the coast, shed their ruddy light over the blue
waters, illumining here and there some lofty crest, and adding a weird
beauty to the enchanting scene.
[Illustration: MONUMENT TO BURKE AND WILLS.]
"America has no monuments," say our Transatlantic cousins, "because it
is but two hundred years old." Well, Australia, with little more than
three-quarters of a hundred, has already its monument--a beautiful
bronze monument erected to the memory of the explorers Burke and Wills
on a lofty pedestal of elegant workmanship, and occupying a commanding
eminence in the city of Melbourne. The figures, two in number, are of
more than life size, one rising above the other--the chief, with noble
form and dignified air, fraternally supporting his younger confrere. The
pedestal shows three bas-reliefs of exquisite design--one the return to
Cooper's Creek,
[Illustration: BAS-RELIEF: RETURN TO COOPER'S CREEK.]
where the torn garments and emaciated limbs tell with sad emphasis the
woeful tale of hardship and toil through which the heroic explorers had
been passing; another exhibiting the subsequent death of Burke;
[Illustration: BAS-RELIEF: DEATH OF BURKE.]
and the third the finding of the remains.
[Illustration: BAS-RELIEF: FINDING OF BURKE.]
Burke and Wills, to whom belongs the honor of being the first explorers
that crossed the entire continent of Australia, extending their
researches from the Australian to the Pacific Ocean, set out on the 20th
of August, 1860, with a party of fifteen hardy pioneers upon their
perilous mission. Burke was in the prime of life, a man of iron frame,
dauntless courage and an enthusiasm that knew neither difficulty nor
danger. Wills, who belonged to a family that had already given one of
its members to Sir John Franklin's fatal expedition, to find a martyr's
grave among the eternal icebergs of the north, was somewhat younger, and
perhaps less enthusiastic, but was endowed with a rare discretion and
far-seeing sagacity that peculiarly fitted him to be the friend and
counselor of the enthusiastic Burke in such an undertaking. All
Melbourne was in excitement: the government gave fifty thousand dollars,
various individuals ten thousand, to aid the enterprise; and every heart
was aglow with aspirations for their success as the little band of
heroes waved their adieus and turned their faces outward to seek paths
hitherto untrodden by the white man's foot. Besides horses, twenty-seven
camels had been imported from India for the express use of the explorers
and for the transportation of tents, baggage, equipments, and fifteen
months' supply of provisions, with vessels for carrying such supplies of
water as the character of the country over which they were passing
should require them to take with them. Their plan of march divided
itself into three stages, of which Cooper's Creek was the middle one,
and about the centre of the Australian continent. At first their
progress was slow, encumbered as they were by excess of baggage and
equipments: then discontents arose in the little band, and Burke, too
ardent and impulsive for a leader, was first grieved, and then angered,
at what he deemed a want of spirit among some of his men. On the 19th of
October, at Menindie, he left a portion of the troop under the command
of Lieutenant Wright, with orders after a short rest to rejoin him at
Cooper's Creek. It was the end of January before Wright set out for the
point indicated. Meanwhile, as month followed month, bringing to
Melbourne no news of Burke's party, the worst fears were awakened
concerning its fate, and an expedition was fitted out to search for the
lost heroes. To young Howitt was given the command, and it was his
fortune to unveil the sad mystery that had enveloped their fate. On the
29th of June, 1861, crossing the river Loddon, Howitt encountered a
portion of Burke's company under the lead of Brahe, the fourth
lieutenant. Four of his men had died of scurvy, and the rest of his
little band seemed utterly dispirited. Howitt learned that in two months
Burke had crossed the entire route, sometimes desert, sometimes prairie,
between Menindie and Cooper's Creek, and had reached the borders of the
Gulf of Carpentaria, on the extreme north of the continent; also, that
he was there in January, enduring the fiercest heat of summer, and men
and beasts alike languishing for water, and nearly out of provisions. It
was all in vain that he deplored the tardiness of Wright, and hoped, as
he neared Cooper's Creek, for the coming of those who alone had the
means of life for his little squad of famished men. Equally in vain that
Wills with three camels reconnoitred the ground for scores of miles,
hoping to find water. Not an oasis, not a rivulet, was to be found, and
without a single drop of water to quench their parched lips they set out
on another long and dreary march. Desiring to secure the utmost speed,
Burke had left Brahe on the 16th of December with the sick and most of
his provisions at Cooper's Creek, to remain three months at least, and
longer if they were able, while he, with Wills, Grey and King, and six
camels, pushed bravely on, determined not to halt till the Pacific was
reached. Battling with the terrible heat, sometimes for days together
without water, and again obtaining a supply when they had almost
perished for want of it, having occasional fierce conflicts with the
natives, and more deadly encounters with poisonous serpents, but with an
energy and courage that knew no such word as failure, the indomitable
quartette went bravely on. The wished-for goal was reached, and the
heroes, jubiliant though worn and weary, then returned once more to
Cooper's Creek, to find the post deserted by Brahe, and Wright not
arrived, while neither water nor provisions remained to supply their
need.
[Illustration: VALLEY OF LAUNCESTON, VAN DIEMEN'S LAND.]
All this Howitt learned after his arrival at the rendezvous, where he
observed cut in the bark of a tree the word "Dig," and on throwing up
the earth found an iron casket deposited by Brahe, giving the date of
his departure and reasons for withdrawal before the appointed time. Of
far deeper interest were papers written by Burke, announcing that he had
reached the Pacific coast, and retraced his steps as far as Cooper's
Creek--that for two months the little party had advanced rapidly, making
constantly new discoveries of fertile lands, widespread prairies,
gushing streams and well-watered valleys. Occasionally they had found
lagoons of salt water, hills of red sand, trees of beautiful foliage,
and mounds indicating the presence at some unknown period of the
aboriginal inhabitants. They had discovered a range of high mountains in
the north, and called them the Standish Mountains, while at their foot
lay outspread a scene so lovely, of verdant groves and fertile meadows,
of well-watered plains and heavy forest trees, that they christened it
the Land of Promise. Then they reached again more sterile lands, parched
and dry, without a rivulet or an oasis. They suffered for water and food
grew scarce, but, sure of relief at Cooper's Creek, they pushed bravely
on, and reached the rendezvous to learn that the men who could have
saved them had passed on but seven hours before! After having
accomplished so much, so bravely battled with heat and hunger, serpents
and cannibals, to perish at last of starvation, seemed a fate too
terrible; and we cannot wonder that the little band fought their destiny
to the last. Little scraps of the journal of Burke and his friends tell
the sad tale of the last few weeks of agony. On March 6th, Burke seemed
near dying from having eaten a bit of a large serpent that he had
cooked. On the 30th they killed one of their camels, and on April 10th
they killed "Billy," Burke's favorite riding-horse. On the 11th they
were forced to halt on account of the condition of Grey, who was no
longer able to proceed. On the 21st they reached an oasis--a little
squad of human skeletons, scarcely more than alive.
[Illustration: COURSE OF THE TAMAR, VAN DIEMEN'S LAND.]
Far and wide their longing eyes gazed in search of succor: they called
aloud with all their little remaining strength, but the oasis was
deserted, and the echo of their own sad voices was all the reply that
reached the despairing men. Then, at their rendezvous, finding the word
"Dig" on the tree where Howitt found it at a later day, they opened the
soil, and so learned the departure of Brahe on that very morning. How
terribly tantalizing, after their exhausting march and still more
exhausting return, after having killed and eaten all their camels but
two, and all their horses, after making discoveries that unlocked to the
world the vast interior of this hitherto unknown continent, to find that
they were just too late to be saved! Despair and death seemed staring
them in the face: their long overtaxed powers of endurance failed them
utterly, and the gaunt spectre of famine that had been journeying with
the brave men for weeks threatened now to enfold them in its terrible
embrace. Should they yield without another struggle? Burke suddenly
remembered Mount Despair, a cattle-station about one hundred and fifty
leagues away, and with his indomitable resolution persuaded his
companions to start for it, depositing first in the little iron casket
the journal of his discoveries and the date of his departure. As if to
add the last finishing stroke of agony to the sad story, Burke and his
companions had hardly turned their faces westward ere Brahe and Wright,
who had met at the passage of the Loddon, and were now overwhelmed with
remorse at their careless neglect of their leader's orders, determined
to revisit Cooper's Creek, and see if any tidings were to be gained of
the missing party.
[Illustration: GORGE OF THE TAMAR, VAN DIEMEN'S LAND.]
Thoughtless as imprudent, they did not examine the casket, but supposing
it had remained undisturbed where they left it, they turned their faces
southward to the Darling, utterly unsuspicious of the recent visit of
Burke and his unfortunate comrades. Within two days after the trio began
their dreary march to Mount Despair both their camels fell from
exhaustion, but still the poor weary travelers pressed onward,
continuing their search till the 24th of May. Discovering no eminence
above the horizon, they then gave up in despair and began to retrace
their steps, leaving on a tree the date of departure. In one more day's
march they would have reached the summit and been saved!
On the 20th of June it was evident that young Wills could not long
survive, and on the 29th are dated his last words, a letter to his
father full of tenderness and resignation: "My death here within a few
hours is certain, but my soul is calm." Still, almost in the last agony
he made another effort to escape his fatal destiny, and set forth to
reconnoitre the ground once more if perchance succor might be found.
Alone, with none to close his eyes, he fell asleep, and Howitt after
long search found the skeleton body stretched upon the sands, the
natives having compassionately covered it with boughs and leaves.
Burke's last words are dated on the 28th, one day earlier than those of
Wills: "We have gained the shores of the ocean, but we have been
aband--" The last word is unfinished, as if his pen had refused to make
the cruel record. Burke's wasted remains too were found, covered with
leaves and boughs. By his side lay his revolver, and the record of his
great exploits was in the little casket at the foot of the tree. King
survived, and was found by Howitt, naked, famished and unable to speak
or walk; but after long recruiting he was able to relate the details of
suffering of those last few months, unknown to all the world save
himself. Howitt reverently wrapped the precious remains in the union
jack, and, leaving them in their lonely grave, retraced his steps to
Melbourne with the precious casket of papers, the last legacy of the
dead heroes. On the 6th of the following December, Howitt again visited
the desolate spot, charged with the melancholy mission of bringing back
the remains for interment in Melbourne. The chaste and elegant monument
that marks the spot where the heroes sleep is a far less enduring
memorial than exists in the wonderful development and unprecedented
prosperity which mark the colony as the fruit of the labors, sufferings
and death of these martyred heroes.
A pretty romance is associated with the discovery and naming of Van
Diemen's Land. A young man, Tasman by name, who had been scornfully
rejected by a Dutch nabob as the suitor of his daughter, resolved to
prove himself worthy of the lady of his heart. So, while his inamorata
was cruelly imprisoned in the palace of her sire at Batavia, young
Tasman, instead of wasting time in regrets, set forth on a voyage of
adventure, seeking to win by prowess what gallantry had failed to
effect. On his first voyage he so far circumnavigated the island as to
be convinced of its insular character, but really saw little of the
land. In subsequent voyages he made extensive explorations, calling not
only the mainland, but all the little islets he discovered, by the
several names and synonyms of Mademoiselle Van Diemen, his beloved. When
at length he was able to lay before the Dutch government the charts of
his voyages and a digest of his discoveries in the beautiful land where
he had already planted the standard of Holland, the cruel sire relented
and consented to receive as a son-in-law the successful adventurer.
Tasman, it seems, never very fully explored the waters that surrounded
his domain, and the honor was reserved to two young men, Flinders and
Bass, of discovering in 1797 the deep, wide strait of two hundred and
seventy miles in width that bears the name of Bass. The scenery of Van
Diemen's Land is full of picturesque beauty--a sort of miniature
Switzerland, with snow-clad peaks, rocks and ravines, foaming cataracts
and multitudinous little lakes with their circling belt of green and
dancing rivulets bordered with flowers. The Valley of Launceston is a
very Arcadia of pastoral repose, while the Tamar--which in its whole
course is rather a succession of beautiful lakes than an ordinary
river--with its narrow defiles, basaltic rocks and sparkling cataracts,
picturesque rocks that cut off one lake and suddenly reveal another, is
a very miracle of beauty, dancing, frothing, foaming, like some playful
sprite possessed with the very spirit of mischief.
[Illustration: HOBART TOWN.]
Hobart Town, the capital of Tasmania, is a quiet, hospitable little
town, but a very hotbed of aristocracy--the single spot on the
Australian continent where English exclusiveness can, after the gay
seasons of the large cities, retire to aristocratic country-seats, to
nurse and revivify its pride of birth, without fear of coming in contact
with anything parvenu or plebeian. The town is prettily laid out, with a
genuine Gothic château for its government palace, and elegant private
residences. It seems tame and deserted when visited from Sydney or
Melbourne, but offers just the rest and refreshment one needs after a
season of exhausting labor in the mines of Ballarat.
The rapid growth of the Australian colonies, their remoteness from the
mother country, and the vastness of the territory over which they are
spread, naturally suggest the question whether they are destined to
remain in a condition of dependence or are likely to follow the example
of their American prototypes. On this point the opinion of the count of
Beauvoir is entitled to consideration, as that of an impartial as well
as intelligent observer. He had expected, he tells us, in visiting the
country, to find it preparing for its speedy emancipation; but he left
it with the conviction that, far from desiring a severance of the
connection, the colonists would regard it as a blow to their material
interests--the one event, in fact, capable of arresting their
unparalleled progress. It can only occur as the result of a European war
in which the power of England shall be so crippled as to disable her
from protecting these distant possessions, casting upon them the whole
burden of self-defence, and forcing them to assume the responsibilities
of national existence.
THE GOLDEN EAGLE AND HIS EYRIE.
[Illustration: ON THE WAY TO THE WOOD-DRIFT.]
A somewhat tedious journey of thirty hours from Paris brought me one
fine afternoon in the early part of July to Kulstein, an ancient
fortress forming the frontier-town of the North Tyrol, toward Bavaria.
While occupied in passing my portmanteau through the prying and
unutterably dirty hands of the custom-house officials I was accosted by
a man dressed in the garb of a Tyrolese mountaineer--short leathern
breeches reaching to the knee, gray stockings, heavy hobnailed shoes, a
nondescript species of jacket of the roughest frieze, and a battered hat
adorned with two or three feathers of the capercailzie and a plume of
the royal eagle. Old Hansel was one of the gamekeepers on a large
imperial preserve close by, with whom some years previously I had on
more than one occasion shared a hard couch under the stunted pines when
inopportune night overtook us near the glaciers while in hot pursuit of
the chamois.
This unexpected meeting proved a source of the liveliest interest to me,
inasmuch as this old veteran of the mountains was on the point of
starting on an expedition of a somewhat remarkable character. A pair of
golden eagles, it appeared, had made a neighboring valley the scene of
their frequent ravages and depredations among the cattle and game, and
Hansel was about to organize an expedition to search for, and if
possible despoil, the eyrie. Of late years these birds have become very
rare. Switzerland is nearly, if not quite, cleared of them, while the
Tyrol, affording greater solitude and a larger stock of game, can boast
of eight or at the most ten couples. They are, as is well known, the
largest and most powerful of all the birds of prey inhabiting Europe,
measuring from eight to eight and a half feet in the span, and
possessing terrible strength of beak, talons and wings. A full-grown
golden eagle can easily carry off a young chamois, a full-grown roe or a
sheep, none of them weighing less than thirty pounds; and well-attested
cases have occurred of young children being thus abstracted. In the fall
of 1873 a boy nearly eight years of age was carried away by one of these
birds from the very door of his parents' cottage, situated not far from
the celebrated Königsee, near Salzburg.
[Illustration: OUR ARRIVAL AT THE DRIFT-KEEPER'S COTTAGE.]
The breeding-season falls in the month of June, and in the course of the
first fortnight of the succeeding month the young offspring take wing
and commence their raids in quest of pillage on their own account. The
eyrie or nest is an object of the greatest care with the parent birds,
the site being chosen with a view to the greatest possible security,
generally in some crevice on the face of a perpendicular precipice
several hundred feet in height. It is built of dry sticks of wood coated
on the inside with moss. Hansel informed me of a surmise that the eyrie
of this pair would be discovered in the face of the terribly steep
"Falknerwand;" and although I had once before been engaged in a similar
exploit, I could not resist the temptation to join in this expedition,
and despatched on the spot a telegram to the friend who was awaiting my
arrival in Ampezzo in order to make some ascents in the Dolomites,
announcing a detention of some days. This done, we re-entered the cars
and proceeded a few stations farther down the line to quaint old
Rattenberg, a small town on the banks of the swift Inn. Not an hour from
this place the scantily-inhabited Brandenberg valley opens on the broad
and sunny Innthal. The former is merely a mountain-gorge. Far up in its
recesses stands a small cottage belonging to the keeper of a wood-drift,
and in close proximity to this solitary habitation is a second very wild
and wellnigh inaccessible ravine, the scene of the coming adventure.
Having passed the night in the modest little inn at Rattenberg, Hansel
and I set off next morning long before sunrise on our eight hours' tramp
to the wood-drift by a path which was in most places of just sufficient
breadth to allow of one person passing at a time. Few of my
fellow-travelers of the day before would have recognized me in the
costume I had donned for the occasion--an old and much-patched coat,
short leathern trousers, as worn and torn as the poorest woodcutter's,
and a ten-seasoned hat which had been originally green, then brown, and
had now become gray. My face and knees were still bronzed from the
exposure attendant on a long course of Alpine climbing the year before.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF TOMERL'S COTTAGE.]
The keeper of the wood-drift was an old acquaintance of mine, whose
qualities as a keen sportsman had shone forth when four or five years
previously I had quartered myself for a month in his secluded
neighborhood, spending the day, and frequently also the night, on the
peaks and passes surrounding his cottage. To the buxom Moidel, his
pretty young wife, I was also no stranger, and her smile and blush
assured me that she still remembered the time when, reigning supreme
over her father's cattle on a neighboring alp, she had administered to
the wants of the young sportsman seeking a night's lodging in the
lonesome chalet. Many a merry evening had I spent in the low,
oak-paneled "general room" of Tomerl's cottage when he was still a gay
young bachelor, and no change had since been made in the aspect of the
apartment. In one corner stood the huge pile of pottery used for heating
the room, and round it were still fixed the rows of wooden laths by
means of which I had so frequently dried my soaking apparel. Running the
whole length of the room was a broad bench, in front of which were
placed two strong tables; and at one of these were seated, at our
entrance, two woodcutters, who had heard of the intended expedition and
come to offer their help. They informed us that four more men engaged in
wood-felling in a forest an hour or so distant would also be delighted
to join us, as they did at the close of their day's work.
The evening was spent in discussing the details of the approaching
exploit and getting our various arrangements and implements in order. At
nine o'clock, leaving Tomerl and his wife their accustomed bed on the
top of the stove, the rest of us retired to our common bed-room, the
hayloft. We were up again by three, and an hour later were all ready to
start. Tomerl led the way, but stopped ere we lost sight of the cottage
to shout a last "jodler" to his wife, who returned the greeting with a
clear, bell-like voice, though her heart was doubtless beating fast
under her smartly-laced bodice.
Three hours later we had reached the gorge, and after some difficult
scrambling and wading through turbulent torrents we arrived at the base
of the Falknerwand, which rises perpendicularly upward of nine hundred
feet--an altitude diminished in appearance by the tenfold greater height
of the surrounding mountains. Finding, after a few minutes' close
observation, that nothing could be done from the base of the cliff, we
proceeded to scale it by a circuitous route up a practicable but
nevertheless terribly steep incline. Safely arrived at the top, we threw
down our burdens and began to reconnoitre the terrain, which we did
_ventre à terre_, bending over the cliff as far as we dared. Great
was our dismay to perceive that some eighty or ninety feet below us a
narrow rocky ledge, which had escaped our notice when looking up from
the foot of the cliff, projected shelf-wise from the face of the
precipice, shutting out all view of a crevice which we had descried from
the bottom, and which, as we anticipated, contained the eyrie.
After consulting some time, we decided to lower ourselves down to this
rock-band, and make it the base of our further movements, instead of
operating, as we had intended, from the crest of the cliff, where
everything but for this obstacle would have been tenfold easier. Posting
one of the men at the top of the cliff to lower the heavy rope, three
hundred feet in length, by means of a cord, we descended to the ledge,
which was nowhere more than three feet in width, and in several places
scarcely over a foot and a half. Standing in a single row on this
miniature platform, we had to manipulate the rope with a yawning gulf
some eight hundred feet in depth beside us, and nothing to lay hold of
for support but the smooth face of the rock.
We began operations by driving a strong iron hook into the solid rock,
at a point some two or three feet above the ledge. Through this hook the
rope was passed, one end pendent over the cliff; and to obviate the
peril of its being frayed and speedily severed by the sharp outer edge
of our platform, we rigged up a block of wood with some iron stays to
serve as an immovable pulley. These preparations completed, the men were
assigned to their respective positions. Hansel and Tomerl, two renowned
shots, were to lie at full length, rifle in hand, one at each end of the
row, to act as my guardian angels if I were surprised and attacked by
the old eagles while engaged in the work of spoliation. The remaining
woodcutters, with the exception of the one who had been left on the top
of the cliff, were placed in file along the ledge to lower and raise the
plank which was to serve as my seat, and to which the rope was securely
fastened after being passed through an iron ring attached to my stout
leathern girdle. A signal-line was to hang at my side, and a
hunting-knife, a revolver, a strong canvas bag to hold the booty, and an
ashen pole iron-shod at one end and provided with a strong iron boathook
at the other, completed my equipment, each article of which had
undergone the strictest scrutiny before its adoption.
Taking the pole from the hands of Hansel, I let myself glide over the
edge of the cliff, and the next moment hung in empty space. After being
lowered about eighty feet, I found myself on a level with the crevice
before mentioned, and gave the preconcerted signal for arresting my
downward progress. Owing, however, to a beetling crag or boulder which
overhung the recess, I was still at a distance of ten or twelve feet
horizontally from the goal. Fixing the boathook into a convenient
indentation of the rock, I gradually pulled myself in till I reached the
face of the wall. Then leaving the plank, I crawled up an inclined slab
of rock which led to the actual crevice, until I was stopped by a
barrier of dry sticks about two feet in height. Raising myself on my
knees, I peered into the oval-shaped eyrie, and saw perched up at the
farther side two splendid young golden eagles.
[Illustration: "FIXING THE BOAT-HOOK INTO AN INDENTATION, I PULLED
MYSELF IN."]
It is a very rare occurrence to find two young eagles in one eyrie.
These, though only four or five weeks old, were formidable birds,
measuring considerably over six feet in the span, and displaying beaks
and talons of imposing size. It took some time to capture and pinion
these powerful and refractory ornithological specimens, whose loud,
discordant screams caused me several times to glance involuntarily over
my shoulder at the strip of horizon visible, to assure myself that the
old eagles were not swooping down to the rescue. I was in the more haste
to leave the eyrie that the stench which emanated from the remains of
numerous victims strewn in and about it was something terrific. These
relics, which I had the curiosity to count, consisted of a half-devoured
carcass of a chamois, three pairs of chamois' horns and the
corresponding bones of the animals, the skeleton of a goat picked clean,
the remains of an Alpine hare, and the head and neck of a fawn.
[Illustration: ENTERING THE EYRIE.]
The canvas bag being too small to contain both the eaglets, I was
obliged to hang one of them to my belt, after tying my handkerchief
round his beak. The game secured, I crept cautiously down the slab to
the plank, and fixing the hook of my pole in the indentation of which I
had made use in drawing myself in, I gave the preconcerted two jerks
with the signal-line. Now occurred the first of a series of accidents
which came near resulting fatally to the whole party. Contrary to my
strict injunctions, the men hauling the rope gave a sudden and violent
pull, wrenching the pole from my grasp, and communicating to the plank a
motion like that of a pendulum, which sent me flying out into space,
with the immediate prospect of being dashed by the retrograde swing
against the solid wall of rock. Happily, I preserved my presence of
mind, and grasped instantly the only chance of escape. Tilting myself
back as far as the rope and the ring on my belt allowed, and stretching
out my legs horizontally, I awaited the contact. Half a second later
came a heavy blow on the soles of my feet, the pain of which ran through
my whole frame like the shock of a galvanic battery. Had it been my
head, the reader would probably never have been troubled with any
account of my sensations. As it was, my feet, though protected by
immensely heavy iron-shod shoes, received a concussion the effects of
which continued to be felt for weeks.
Almost at the moment of this incident I had noticed a dark object
shooting past me, at so close a proximity that I distinctly heard the
whistling sound as it cleft the air. Supposing it to be a stone, I gave
it no further thought, and my attention was presently occupied by a
sharp gash which the young eagle at my belt managed to inflict on my
left thigh. It was not until I had stopped the haemorrhage by strewing
some grains of powder into the wound that I perceived with surprise that
I was still stationary, instead of ascending, as in due course I ought
to have been. The boulder of rock projecting a few feet over my head
prevented any view of the ledge, and my shouts inquiring the cause of
the delay received indistinct answers, the words "patience" and "wait"
being the only intelligible ones. These might have had a consoling
influence but for the fact that a thunderstorm--an occurrence of great
frequency in the beginning of summer in the High Alps--was fast
approaching, and my position was one that exposed me to its full fury
without any possibility of escape. Ere long it burst over my head,
drenching me to the skin in the first five minutes, while the lightning
played about me in every direction, and terrific claps of thunder
followed each other at intervals of scarcely a few seconds. What
heightened the danger as well as the absurdity of my situation was the
chance that one or both of the old eagles might return at any moment,
under circumstances that must render a struggle, if any ensued, a most
unequal one. Supposing my guards to be still at their post, the distance
of the ledge was such as to make a shot at a flying bird, large as it
might be, anything but a sure one; and the tactics of the golden eagle
when defending its home do not allow of any second attempt. A speck is
seen on the horizon, and the next moment the powerful bird is down with
one fell swoop: a flap with its strong wing and the unhappy victim is
stunned, and immediately ripped open from the chest to his hip, while
his skull is cleft or fractured by a single blow of the tremendous beak.
Instances are, however, known in which the cool and self-possessed
"pendant" has shot or cut down his foe at the very instant of the
encounter. Happily, my own powers were not put to so severe a test: the
old birds were that day far off, circling probably in majestic swoops
over some distant valley or gorge.
I was forced, however, to be constantly on the alert, and my impatience
and perplexity may be imagined as hours elapsed and there were still no
signs of my approaching deliverance. The storm had long since passed
over, and darkness was settling down when I again felt a pull at the
rope, and continued my ascent, begun nearly four hours before. It was of
the utmost importance that the whole party should regain the top of the
cliff before night had fairly set in. I therefore deferred, on my
arrival at the ledge, all questions and rebukes till we had gained a
place of safety. The heavy rope, fastened to the cord, was hauled up by
the man on the top, and after it had been secured to a tree-stump we
swarmed up without loss of time. We had still before us a somewhat
perilous scramble in the darkness down the steep incline, but the
exhaustion we had undergone made it necessary that we should first
recruit our strength by means of the food and bottle of "Schnapps" with
which we were fortunately provided. While we were thus engaged I
received from my companions an account of the causes of the perilous
delay.
On receiving my signal they had begun to haul, but after the first pull
had felt a sudden jerk, and perceived that the block, supposed to have
been securely fastened at the edge of the platform, was gone. They
imagined at first that it had struck and killed me, but my shouts soon
apprised them of my safety. Fearing to continue the process of hauling
lest the rope should be cut by the sharp-edged stones, they informed the
man on the cliff of the mishap, and despatched him to procure a second
block. He accordingly ran down the slope to the bottom of the mountain,
cut a young pine tree, shaped a block, and was in the act of carrying it
up when the storm burst forth, and the lightning, playing around him in
vivid flashes, cleft and splintered a rock weighing hundreds of tons
that had stood within thirty paces of him. He received no injury except
being thrown on the ground and partially stunned by the terrible
concussion, but it was not till after a considerable time that he was
able to rise and continue his ascent. Had he been killed, our situation
would have been a most precarious one. There would have been no
possibility of regaining the cliff without help, and as our party
comprised all the working force of the neighborhood, and Tomerl's
cottage was the only dwelling within fifteen or twenty miles, our
chances of rescue would have been extremely slight.
We reached the bottom of the mountain as the upper part was beginning to
be lit by the rays of a full moon, and a three hours' tramp brought us
without further mishap to the cottage. Moidel, forewarned of our return
by a series of "jodlers," a sound which may challenge competition as a
joyful acclaim, had prepared an ample supper; and when Tomerl produced
his well-tuned "zither," a species of guitar producing simple but soft
and highly musical strains, the mirth was at its height. Then followed
songs eulogistic of the life of the chamois-stalker, who, "with his gun
in his hand, a chamois on his back and a girl in his heart," has no
cause to envy a king. A dance called the "Schuhblatteln," in which the
art consists in touching the soles of one's shoes with the palm of the
hand, finished our evening's amusement, and we retired, rather worn out,
just as day was breaking.
After four hours' sleep we rose refreshed and eager to examine our two
captives. Attached to Tomerl's cottage was a diminutive barn, from which
we removed the door, and nailing strong laths across the aperture,
managed to improvise a large and roomy cage. A couple of rabbits
furnished a luxurious breakfast, which was devoured with extraordinary
voracity. The hen-bird, as is the case with all birds of prey, was
considerably larger and stronger than her brother, though the latter had
the finer head and eyes.
A week after their capture they were "feathered" for the first time.
This process consists in pulling out the long down-like plumes situated
on the under side of the strong tail-feathers. These plumes, which, if
taken from a full-grown eagle, frequently measure seven or eight inches
in length, are highly prized by the Tyrolese peasants, but still more by
the inhabitants of the neighboring Bavarian Highlands, who do not
hesitate to expend a month's wages in the purchase of two or three with
which to adorn their hats or those of their buxom sweethearts. The value
of a crop of plumes varies somewhat. Generally, however, an eagle yields
about forty florins' ($16) worth of feathers per annum.
Six weeks after this incident I again wended my steps into the secluded
Brandenburg valley, and found the eagles thriving and much grown. Being
curious to see if their confinement had subdued their wild and ferocious
spirit, I removed one of the laths and entered the barn. An angry hiss,
similar to that of a snake, warned me of danger, but too late to save my
hands some severe scratches. With one bound and a flap of their gigantic
wings they were on me, and had it not been for Tomerl, who was standing
just behind me armed with a stout cudgel, I should have paid dearly for
my incautious visit.
I know of no instance where human skill has subdued in the slightest
degree the haughty spirit of the free-born golden eagle. An untamable
ferocity is the predominating characteristic of this noble bird, more
than of any other animal. Circling majestically among the fleeting
clouds, he reigns lord paramount over his vast domain, avoiding the
sight and resenting the approach of man.
W.A. BAILLIE-GROHMAN.
THREE FEATHERS.
BY WILLIAM BLACK, AUTHOR OF "A PRINCESS OF THULE."
CHAPTER XXIX.
MABYN DREAMS.
"Yes, mother," said Mabyn, bursting into the room, "here I am; and
Jennifer's down stairs with my box; and I am to stay with you here for
another week or a fortnight; and Wenna's to go back at once, for the
whole world is convulsed because of Mr. Trelyon's coming of age; and
Mrs. Trelyon has sent and taken all our spare rooms; and father says
Wenna must come back directly, for it's always 'Wenna, do this,' and
'Wenna, do that;' and if Wenna isn't there, of course the sky will
tumble down on the earth--Mother, what's the matter, and where's Wenna?"
Mabyn was suddenly brought up in the middle of her voluble speech by the
strange expression on her mother's face.
"Oh, Mabyn, something dreadful has happened to our Wenna."
Mabyn turned deadly white. "Is she ill?" she said, almost in a whisper.
"No, not ill, but a great trouble has fallen on her."
Then the mother, in a low voice, apparently fearful that any one should
overhear, began to tell her younger daughter of all she had learnt
within the past day or two--how young Trelyon had been bold enough to
tell Wenna that he loved her; how Wenna had dallied with her conscience
and been loath to part with him; how at length she had as good as
revealed to him that she loved him in return; and how she was now
overwhelmed and crushed beneath a sense of her own faithlessness and the
impossibility of making reparation to her betrothed.
"Only to think, Mabyn," said the mother in accents of despair, "that all
this distress should have come about in such a quiet and unexpected way!
Who could have foreseen it? Why, of all the people in the world, you
would have thought our Wenna was the least likely to have any misery of
this sort; and many a time--don't you remember?--I used to say it was so
wise of her getting engaged to a prudent and elderly man, who would save
her from the plagues and trials that young girls often suffer at the
hands of their lovers. I thought she was so comfortably settled.
Everything promised her a quiet and gentle life. And now this sudden
shock has come upon her, she seems to think she is not fit to live, and
she goes on in such a wild way--"
"Where is she?" Mabyn said abruptly.
"No, no, no!" the mother said anxiously, "you must not speak a word to
her, Mabyn. You must not let her know I have told you anything about it.
Leave her to herself, for a while at least: if you speak to her, she
will take it you mean to accuse her, for she says you warned her, and
she would pay no heed. Leave her to herself, Mabyn."
"Then where is Mr. Trelyon?" said Mabyn, with some touch of indignation
in her voice. "What is he doing? Is he leaving her to herself too?"
"I don't know what you mean, Mabyn," her mother said timidly.
"Why doesn't he come forward like a man and marry her?" said Mabyn
boldly. "Yes, that is what I would do if I were a man. She has sent him
away? Yes, of course: that is right and proper. And Wenna will go on
doing what is right and proper, if you allow her, to the very end, and
the end will be a lifetime of misery: that's all. No, my notion is, that
she should do something that is not right and is quite improper, if only
it makes her happy; and you'll see if I don't get her to do it. Why,
mother, haven't you had eyes to see that these two have been in love for
years? Nobody in the world had ever the least control over him but her:
he would do anything for Wenna; and she--why she always came back
singing after she had met and spoken to him. And then you talk about a
prudent and sensible husband! I don't want Wenna to marry a watchful,
mean, old, stocking-darning cripple, who will creep about the house all
day and peer into cupboards, and give her fourpence-halfpenny a week to
live on. I want her to marry a man--one that is strong enough to protect
her. And I tell you, mother--I've said it before, and I say it
again--she _shall not_ marry Mr. Roscorla."
"Mabyn," said her mother, "you are getting madder than ever. Your
dislike to Mr. Roscorla is most unreasonable. A cripple! Why--"
"Oh, mother!" Mabyn cried with a bright light on her face, "only think
of our Wenna being married to Mr. Trelyon, and how happy and pleased and
pretty she would look as they went walking together! And then how proud
he would be to have so nice a wife! and he would joke about her and be
very impertinent, but he would simply worship her all the same, and do
everything he could to please her. And he would take her away and show
her all the beautiful places abroad; and he would have a yacht, too; and
he would give her a fine house in London. And don't you think our Wenna
would fascinate everybody with her mouselike ways and her nice small
steps? And if they did have any trouble, wouldn't she be better to have
somebody with her not timid and anxious and pettifogging, but somebody
who wouldn't be cast down, but make her as brave as himself?"
Miss Mabyn was a shrewd young woman, and she saw that her mother's
quick, imaginative, sympathetic nature was being captivated by this
picture. She determined to have her as an ally.
"And don't you see, mother, how it all lies within her reach? Harry
Trelyon is in love with her: there was no need for him to say so. I knew
it long before he did. And she--why, she has told him now that she cares
for him; and if I were he, I know what I'd do in his place. What is
there in the way? Why, a--a sort of understanding."
"A promise, Mabyn," said the mother.
"Well, a promise," said the girl desperately, and coloring somewhat.
"But it was a promise given in ignorance: she didn't know--how could she
know? Everybody knows that such promises are constantly broken. If you
are in love with somebody else, what's the good of your keeping the
promise? Now, mother, won't you argue with her? See here: if she keeps
her promise, there's three people miserable. If she breaks it, there's
only one; and I doubt whether he's got the capacity to be miserable.
That's two to one, or three to one, is it? Now, will you argue with her,
mother?"
"Mabyn, Mabyn," the mother said with a shake of the head, but evidently
pleased with the voice of the tempter, "your fancy has run away with
you. Why, Mr. Trelyon has never proposed to marry her."
"I know he wants to," said Mabyn confidently.
"How can you know?"
"I'll ask him and prove it to you."
"Indeed," said the mother sadly, "it is no thought of marriage that is
in Wenna's head just now. The poor girl is full of remorse and
apprehension. I think she would like to start at once for Jamaica, and
fling herself at Mr. Roscorla's feet and confess her fault. I am glad
she has to go back to Eglosilyan: that may distract her mind in a
measure: at present she is suffering more than she shows."
"Where is she?"
"In her own room, tired out and fast asleep. I looked in a few minutes
ago."
Mabyn went up stairs, after having seen that Jennifer had properly
bestowed her box. Wenna had just risen from the sofa, and was standing
in the middle of the room. Her younger and taller sister went blithely
forward to her, kissed her as usual, took no notice of the sudden flush
of red that sprang into her face, and proceeded to state, in a
business-like fashion, all the arrangements that had to be made.
"Have you been enjoying yourself, Wenna?" Mabyn said with a fine air of
indifference.
"Oh yes," Wenna answered; adding hastily, "Don't you think mother is
greatly improved?"
"Wonderfully! I almost forgot she was an invalid. How lucky you are to
be going back to see all the fine doings at the Hall! Of course they
will ask you up."
"They will do nothing of the kind," Wenna said with some asperity, and
with her face turned aside.
"Lord and Lady Amersham have already come to the Hall."
"Oh, indeed!"
"Yes. They said some time ago that there was a good chance of Mr.
Trelyon marrying the daughter--the tall girl with yellow hair, you
remember?"
"And the stooping shoulders? Yes. I should think they would be glad to
get her married to anybody. She's thirty."
"Oh, Wenna!"
"Mr. Trelyon told me so," said Wenna sharply.
"And they are a little surprised," continued Mabyn in the same
indifferent way, but watching her sister all the while, "that Mr.
Trelyon has remained absent until so near the time. But I suppose he
means to take Miss Penaluna with him. She lives here, doesn't she? They
used to say there was a chance of a marriage there too."
"Mabyn, what do you mean?" Wenna said suddenly and angrily. "What do I
care about Mr. Trelyon's marriage? What is it you mean?"
But the firmness of her lips began to yield: there was an ominous
trembling about them, and at the same moment her younger sister caught
her to her bosom, and hid her face there and hushed her wild sobbing.
She would hear no confession. She knew enough. Nothing would convince
her that Wenna had done anything wrong, so there was no use speaking
about it.
"Wenna," she said in a low voice, "have you sent him any message?"
"Oh no, no!" the girl said trembling. "I fear even to think of him; and
when you mentioned his name, Mabyn, it seemed to choke me. And now I
have to go back to Eglosilyan; and oh, if you only knew how I dread
that, Mabyn!"
Mabyn's conscience was struck. She it was who had done this thing. She
had persuaded her father that her mother needed another week or
fortnight at Penzance; she had frightened him by telling what bother he
would suffer if Wenna were not back at the inn during the festivities at
Trelyon Hall; and then she had offered to go and take her sister's post.
George Rosewarne was heartily glad to exchange the one daughter for the
other. Mabyn was too independent; she thwarted him; sometimes she
insisted on his bestirring himself. Wenna, on the other hand, went about
the place like some invisible spirit of order, making everything
comfortable for him without noise or worry. He was easily led to issue
the necessary orders; and so it was that Mabyn thought she was doing her
sister a friendly turn by sending her back to Eglosilyan in order to
join in congratulating Harry Trelyon on his entrance into man's estate.
Now Mabyn found that she had only plunged her sister into deeper
trouble. What could be done to save her?
"Wenna," said Mabyn rather timidly, "do you think he has left Penzance?"
Wenna turned to her with a sudden look of entreaty in her face: "I
cannot bear to speak of him, Mabyn. I have no right to: I hope you will
not ask me. Just now I--I am going to write a letter--to Jamaica. I
shall tell the whole truth. It is for him to say what must happen now. I
have done him a great injury: I did not intend it, I had no thought of
it, but my own folly and thoughtlessness brought it about, and I have to
bear the penalty. I don't think he need be anxious about punishing me."
She turned away with a tired look on her face, and began to get out her
writing materials. Mabyn watched her for a moment or two in silence;
then she left and went to her own room, saying to herself, "Punishment!
Whoever talks of punishment will have to address himself to me."
When she got to her own room she wrote these words on a piece of paper
in her firm, bold, free hand: "A friend would like to see you for a
minute in front of the post-office in the middle of the town." She put
that in an envelope, and addressed the envelope to Harry Trelyon, Esq.
Still keeping her bonnet on, she went down stairs and had a little
general conversation with her mother, in the course of which she quite
casually asked the name of the hotel at which Mr. Trelyon had been
staying. Then, just as if she were going out to the Parade to have a
look at the sea, she carelessly left the house.
The dusk of the evening was growing to dark. A white mist lay over the
sea. The solitary lamps were being lit along the Parade, each golden
star shining sharply in the pale purple twilight, but a more confused
glow of orange showed where the little town was busy in its narrow
thoroughfares. She got hold of a small boy, gave him the letter, a
sixpence and his instructions. He was to ask if the gentleman were in
the hotel. If not, had he left Penzance, or would he return that night?
In any case, the boy was not to leave the letter unless Mr. Trelyon was
there.
The small boy returned in a couple of minutes. The gentleman was there,
and had taken the letter. So Mabyn at once set out for the centre of the
town, and soon found herself in among a mass of huddled houses, bright
shops and thoroughfares pretty well filled with strolling sailors, women
getting home from market and townspeople come out to gossip. She had
accurately judged that she would be less observed in this busy little
place than out on the Parade; and as it was the first appointment she
had ever made to meet a young gentleman alone, she was just a little
nervous.
Trelyon was there. He had recognized the handwriting in a moment. He had
no time to ridicule or even to think of Mabyn's school-girl affectation
of secresy: he had at once rushed off to the place of appointment, and
that by a short cut of which she had no knowledge.
"Mabyn, what's the matter? Is Wenna ill?" he said, forgetting in his
anxiety even to shake hands with her.
"Oh no, she isn't," said Mabyn rather coldly and defiantly. If he was in
love with her sister, it was for him to make advances. "Oh no, she's
pretty well, thank you," continued Mabyn, indifferently. "But she never
could stand much worry. I wanted to see you about that. She is going
back to Eglosilyan to-morrow; and you must promise not to have her asked
up to the Hall while these grand doings are going on--you must not try
to see her and persuade her. If you could keep out of her way
altogether--"
"You know all about it, then, Mabyn?" he said suddenly; and even in the
dusky light of the street she could see the rapid look of gladness that
filled his face. "And you are not going to be vexed, eh? You'll remain
friends with me, Mabyn--you will tell me how she is from time to time.
Don't you see, I must go away; and--and, by Jove, Mabyn! I've got such a
lot to tell you!"
She looked round.
"I can't talk to you here. Won't you walk back by the other road behind
the town?" he said.
Yes, she would go willingly with him now. The anxiety of his face, the
almost wild way in which he seemed to beg for her help and friendship,
the mere impatience of his manner, pleased and satisfied her. This was
as it should be. Here was no sweetheart by line and rule, demonstrating
his affection by argument, and acting at all times with a studied
propriety; but a real, true lover, full of passionate hope and as
passionate fear; ready to do anything, and yet not knowing what to do.
Above all, he was "brave and handsome, like a prince," and therefore a
fit lover for her gentle sister.
"Oh, Mr. Trelyon," she said with a great burst of confidence, "I did so
fear that you might be indifferent!"
"Indifferent!" said he with some bitterness. "Perhaps that is the best
thing that could happen, only it isn't very likely to happen. Did you
ever see anybody placed as I am placed, Mabyn? Nothing but
stumbling-blocks every way I look. Our family have always been
hot-headed and hot-tempered: if I told my grandmother at this minute how
I am situated, I believe she would say, 'Why don't you go like a man and
run off with the girl?'"
"Yes!" said Mabyn, quite delighted.
"But suppose you've bothered and worried the girl until you feel ashamed
of yourself, and she begs of you to leave her, aren't you bound in fair
manliness to go?"
"I don't know," said Mabyn doubtfully.
"Well, I do. It would be very mean to pester her. I'm off as soon as
these people leave the Hall. But then there are other things. There is
your sister engaged to this fellow out in Jamaica--"
"Isn't he a horrid wretch?" said Mabyn between her teeth.
"Oh, I quite agree with you. If I could have it out with him now! But,
after all, what harm has the man done? Is it any wonder he wanted to get
Wenna for a wife?"
"Oh, but he cheated her," said Mabyn warmly. "He persuaded her and
reasoned with her, and argued her into marrying him. And what business
had he to tell her that love between young people is all bitterness and
trial, and that a girl is only safe when she marries a prudent and
elderly man who will look after her? Why, it is to look after him that
he wants her. Wenna is going to him as a housekeeper and a nurse.
Only--only, Mr. Trelyon, _she hasn't gone to him just yet_!"
"Oh, I don't think he did anything unfair," the young man said gloomily.
"It doesn't matter, anyhow. What I was going to say is, that my
grandmother's notion of what one of our family ought to do in such a
case can't be carried out: whatever you may think of a man, you can't go
and try to rob him of his sweetheart behind his back. Even supposing she
were willing to break with him--which she is not--you've at least got to
wait to give the fellow a chance."
"There I quite disagree with you, Mr. Trelyon," Mabyn said warmly. "Wait
to give him a chance to make our Wenna miserable! Is she to be made the
prize of a sort of fight? If I were a man I'd pay less attention to my
own scruples and try what I could do for her--Oh, Mr. Trelyon--I--I beg
your pardon."
Mabyn suddenly stopped on the road, overwhelmed with confusion. She had
been so warmly thinking of her sister's welfare that she had been
hurried into something worse than an indiscretion.
"What then, Mabyn?" said he, profoundly surprised.
"I beg your pardon: I have been so thoughtless. I had no right to assume
that you wished--that you wished for the--for the opportunity--"
"Of marrying Wenna?" said he with a great stare. "But what else have we
been speaking about? Or rather, I suppose we did assume it. Well, the
more I think over it, Mabyn, the more I am maddened by all these
obstacles, and by the notion of all the things that may happen. That's
the bad part of my going away. How can I tell what may happen? He might
come back and insist on her marrying him right off."
"Mr. Trelyon," said Mabyn, speaking very clearly, "there's one thing you
may be sure of. If you let me know where you are, nothing will happen to
Wenna that you don't hear of."
He took her hand and pressed it in mute thankfulness. He was not
insensible to the value of having so warm an advocate, so faithful an
ally, always at Wenna's side.
"How long do letters take in going to Jamaica?" Mabyn asked.
"I don't know."
"I could fetch him back for you directly," said she, "if you would like
that."
"How?"
"By writing and telling him that you and Wenna were going to get
married. Wouldn't that fetch him back pretty quickly?"
"I doubt it. He wouldn't believe it of Wenna. Then he is a sensible sort
of fellow, and would say to himself that if the news was true he would
have his journey for nothing. Besides, Barnes says that things are
looking well with him in Jamaica--better than anybody expected. He might
not be anxious to leave."
They had now got back to the Parade, and Mabyn stopped: "I must leave
you now, Mr. Trelyon. Mind not to go near Wenna when you get to
Eglosilyan."
"She sha'n't even see me. I shall be there only a couple of days or so;
then I am going to London. I am going to have a try at the Civil Service
examinations--for first commissions, you know. I shall only come back to
Eglosilyan for a day now and again at long intervals. You have promised
to write to me, Mabyn. Well, I'll send you my address."
She looked at him keenly as she offered him her hand. "I wouldn't be
downhearted if I were you," she said. "Very odd things sometimes
happen."
"Oh, I sha'n't be very down-hearted," said he, "so long as I hear that
she is all right, and not vexing herself about anything."
"Good-bye, Mr. Trelyon. I am sorry I can't take any message for you."
"To her? No, that is impossible. Good-bye, Mabyn: I think you are the
best friend I have in the world."
"We'll see about that," she said as she walked rapidly off.
Her mother had been sufficiently astonished by her long absence: she was
now equally surprised by the excitement and pleasure visible in her
face.
"Oh, mammy, do you know whom I've seen? Mr. Trelyon."
"Mabyn!"
"Yes. We've walked right round Penzance all by ourselves. And it's all
settled, mother."
"What is all settled?"
"The understanding between him and me. An offensive and defensive
alliance. Let tyrants beware!"
She took off her bonnet and came and sat down on the floor by the side
of the sofa: "Oh, mammy, I see such beautiful things in the future! You
wouldn't believe it if I told you all I see. Everybody else seems
determined to forecast such gloomy events. There's Wenna crying and
writing letters of contrition, and expecting all sorts of anger and
scolding; there's Mr. Trelyon haunted by the notion that Mr. Roscorla
will suddenly come home and marry Wenna right off; and as for him out
there in Jamaica, I expect he'll be in a nice state when he hears of all
this. But far on ahead of all that I see such a beautiful picture!"
"It is a dream of yours, Mabyn," her mother said, but there was an
imaginative light in her fine eyes too.
"No, it is not a dream, mother, for there are so many people all wishing
now that it should come about, in spite of these gloomy fancies. What is
there to prevent it when we are all agreed?--Mr. Trelyon and I heading
the list with our important alliance; and you, mother, would be so proud
to see Wenna happy; and Mrs. Trelyon pets her as if she were a daughter
already; and everybody--every man, woman and child--in Eglosilyan would
rather see that come about than get a guinea apiece. Oh, mother, if you
could see the picture that I see just now!"
"It is a pretty picture, Mabyn," her mother said, shaking her head. "But
when you think of everybody being agreed, you forget one, and that is
Wenna herself. Whatever she thinks fit and right to do, that she is
certain to do, and all your alliances and friendly wishes won't alter
her decision, even if it should break her heart. And indeed I hope the
poor child won't sink under the terrible strain that is on her: what do
you think of her looks, Mabyn?"
"They want mending--yes, they want mending," Mabyn admitted, apparently
with some compunction, but then she added boldly, "and you know as well
as I do, mother, that there is but the one way of mending them."